


The Odds, Part 1: The Volunteers

by ok_so_chiggy



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, District 11 (Hunger Games), District 12 (Hunger Games), District 2 (Hunger Games), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ok_so_chiggy/pseuds/ok_so_chiggy
Summary: Din stands up a little straighter. “This time I'll be in the Games. This time I can keep the Stray alive.”“But for what purpose?" The Blacksmith counters. "He will have no life to return to, no family, no home. Saving his life will not change his circumstances. He will still be one of the Forsaken.”“Then I’ll give him a family and home!” Din insists. “Like you did for me!"The TV now shows the tiny, green child standing on top of the Human Tribute's shoulders, waving proudly for all Panem to see. The cameras capture his beaming face from every angle.Compelled by the image, Din adds, "Then he won't be a Stray anymore--”A realization strikes him like a hammer to an anvil.“--He’ll be a Foundling.” Din finishes quietly.-----Three Volunteers enter the Hunger Games: A peacekeeper's son, a force-sensitive orphan, and a Mandalorian-in-training.  This is the story of how they unite to beat the Odds and show Panem The Way.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret) & Din Djarin, Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/Din Djarin
Comments: 39
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1: Corin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts), [Miscellaneous_Ace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miscellaneous_Ace/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rescue and Regret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648874) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 
  * Inspired by [Family and Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758992) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> I want to express my deepest gratitude to Lady Irina for allowing me to use her characters and story, to Miscellaneous Ace for offering me unconditional support and sharing faer brilliant ideas with me, and to Batvan and Alex for reading my drafts and encouraging me to pursue this crazy Hunger Games AU idea. Lady, Ace, Bats, and Alex, I dedicate this story to you. And of course, I am indebted to my beta Arboreal! Thank you!! (Extended thanks are given in the End Notes). <3 
> 
> Alright, without further ado, I present to you The Mandalorian x Hunger Games universe. Enjoy!

**THE ODDS**

**Part One: The Volunteers** ****

* * *

**CHAPTER 1: Corin**

* * *

He’s falling

They’re _both_ falling.

And he thinks that the other boy might be screaming, and maybe he is too, but all he can hear in that moment is the icy air whipping past his ears and the zipping sound of his insulated nylon jacket sliding against the snow.

Of course he can’t _see_ the snow. No, all he sees is a terrifying inversion of blue skies and an ever-looming treeline.

Sliding head-first down a steep slope, belly up?

The odds of him surviving are...not favorable.

_Except…wait..._

He has somehow managed to hang onto his ice-axe in the fall.

_Perhaps the odds are favoring me after all!_

With the axe braced diagonally across his chest, he tucks his thumb under the adze and curls his fingers around the head. Meanwhile, his left hand grips the bottom of the handle. Using all of his core strength to fight gravity’s ruthless pull, he lifts his upper body to the right and drives the pick into the snow. This becomes a pivot point, causing his torso to turn over and his legs swing 180°. As soon as his legs are pointing below him, he pulls the axe close to his chest. His descent starts to slow, but it isn’t enough. So he digs his knees and feet into the snow and raises his hips off the ground.

Everything finally comes to a grinding halt.

The perfect self-arrest.

 _His father will be_ so _proud_ , he admits begrudgingly. 

He immediately leaps to his feet, not wanting to be caught off guard, and staggers the rest of the way down the hill.

He scans along the forest’s edge until he spots the other boy’s still form, curled on its side, back against a tree trunk. An ice axe lies a few meters away.

At first he thinks the boy is dead and panics.

_But no, the cannon would have gone off if that were so._

_So maybe just passed out?_

He sighs in relief. 

Then a terrible realization hits.

The sound of snow crunching beneath boots ceases.

_It’s time to deliver the final blow._

_No, no, no. It isn’t supposed to end this way!_

Without a second thought, he rushes over to the other boy and reaches out towards him.

Big mistake.

A leg kicks out and knocks him off his feet. Years of training makes it so that he lands on his forearms and avoids slamming his head against the ground. But that also means that he loses his grip on the ice-axe. 

It skitters across the snow and out of sight.

_Kriff._

He looks back up just in time to see the other boy raise a leg.

His forearms come up to block a stomp to the face, then push back against the boot with surprising force. It gives him just enough space to get in a few kicks of his own. One to the groin, another to the face.

The other boy doubles over. 

It would be the perfect time to follow through, take the other boy down, end this, but that isn’t part of the plan. 

He _has_ to stick to the original plan.

So instead he somersaults backwards and jumps to his feet. Spotting his ice axe, he dashes forward and snatches it up. 

He whips around just in time to see that the other boy has located his axe as well.

They circle each other slowly.

The other boy finally speaks.

“So what was your plan, Valentis? Push me down a hill and wait for the cannon?”

 _The plan was for_ you _to push_ me _down the hill actually_ , he laments, but remains silent.

"Pretty pathetic if you ask me." He scoffs. "And you call yourself a Career". He spits at the ground, saliva mixed with blood.

Inwardly, Corin grimaces. _It’s_ them _that call me a Career._ I _never wanted that...or_ any _of this. If it wasn’t for my father--_

“You don’t deserve to win and you want to know why?”

He can think of a million reasons why.

“Because, despite what they all say, you’re a coward.”

A little voice in his head agrees, _He’s right, Corin, you are a coward. You won’t kill those kids, but you’ll let someone else do it for you._

Corin Valentis swallows the lump in his throat. He desperately wishes there was a better option, but even if there was one--He shakes his head. _It’s too late for that now._

_Focus. You know what you have to do. Get him mad. Get him to attack. Put up a good fight. And when he beats you...make it look believable._

_Then, no one can ever say you lost on purpose._

_Not even your father._

Corin schools his features and puts on his “persona” -- the one meant for the cameras. It is calm, self-assured, _charming_. 

With a lopsided grin, he finally speaks. “Coward? The only coward here is currently talking my ear off. And, well, losing my ear was never part of the plan, but if I have to lose one, may I request it be done in a more exciting way?” 

The other boy’s look goes from spiteful to absolutely livid. “Fine. Enough talk. Let’s finish this,” he grits out.

Corin purposely opens his stance, welcoming an attack. 

The other boy takes the bait, charging forward. It’s a foolish, emotionally-driven move, and embarrassingly predictable. Corin thinks of at least ten ways he can take the boy down from here. But instead of choosing one of those, he pretends to be foolish as well and meets the boy half-way.

He viciously swings his ice axe at Corin’s head, which he sees coming a mile away, but again he acts as though he has been caught off guard, only blocking at the last second. Their axes cross, and the shock of the impact can be felt all down his arm and into his shoulder. The boy is still bearing down on Corin, so he blades his body with a side-step, grips the head of his axe with his other hand, and pulls down. The shaft catches on the hooked-edge of the other boy’s weapon, and, redirecting the force from the original swing, he yanks the axe out of the other’s hands. The boy then stumbles after it.

And because Corin knows those watching expect a show, he kicks the boy in the butt for good measure and watches as he face-plants.

Growling, the other boy snatches up his weapon and springs to his feet.

This time Corin really is caught off guard. The boy’s upper half barely moves, giving no tell, as he comes at Corin with a quick-step roundhouse to the body. 

The blow creates a hollow, sickly sensation in Corin’s stomach. He staggers backward and tries to catch his breath.

_Now that’s more like it._

Next comes a strike of the axe to Corin’s torso. But his own axe is ready with a downward parry. Corin steps in, rendering another strike useless and snakes his hand around the other boy’s arm locking him in. He grabs the back of the boy’s head and slams his knee up into his face, causing him to gasp in pain.

Corin purposely leaves his own head open, and as expected, the boy slugs him in the face with his free hand. He goes to do it again, but Corin covers this time. This leaves the boy’s torso open to Corin’s upper-cut.

Then he is being choked.

The one-handed clutch is easy enough to get out of. Corin simply pries back the thumb pressing into his windpipe. For a normal kid, pulling the thumb at this unnatural angle would have them falling to their knees, trying to relieve the pain of hyperextension. But the other boy knows all those finger-lock tricks and before Corin can properly incapacitate him, the boy head-butts him in the face. Corin releases both arms and presses the bridge of his nose in pain. When they both recover, they are at it again, with the axes, more vicious than ever.

It becomes a blur, the two boys blocking and twisting, heads dipping and swerving, punches to the gut, the face, shin-kicks, toe stomps, and an arm-bar or two. Corin is looking for a suitable final blow, not meant for the other boy, but for himself. But they are too evenly matched, to the point where there is a clear counter to every move. 

Then, the boy swings at Corin’s mid-section, and he knows it can be the perfect death-blow to end on, but Corin’s instincts kick in and just won’t allow it. Without volition he finds himself going through a disarmament drill that he’s known since he was nine.

  1. Target the enemy’s hand, the one holding the weapon.
  2. Wrap your fingers around his thumb and dig into his palm.
  3. Slide the back of your other forearm against the shaft of the weapon.
  4. Peel back the thumb, loosening their grip on the weapon’s shaft.
  5. Drive your forearm down into the space created.
  6. Weapon successfully ejected.



It’s over before Corin can even register what he’s done.

_Kriff._

_Okay no problem, just let him disarm you._

_There. Good._

_Oh, now he has your axe._

_Actually, that's perfect._

Corin spots the other axe on the ground behind the boy.

_Now get him near the other axe._

Corin dodges a swing to the head and dips smoothly into a spin back kick which sends the other boy flying. He knows the boy will roll over soon and notice the second axe lying on the ground. 

But if Corin just stands there and waits until he does, it will look careless and draw suspicion from those watching. So he quickly scans his surroundings and looks for a make-shift weapon.

There.

A stick.

Corin rolls it onto his foot and kicks it up into one hand.

He weighs it and checks the length. 

A bit flimsier than a bo-staff, but it will have to do.

He looks up in time to see the other boy about to swing. 

And they’re off again. 

Corin is good at wielding a bo-staff, but not as good as he is at wielding dual weapons. Additionally, dual weapons like axes and sickles are very effective against bo-staffs and single handed weapons. In a pair, one weapon blocks, the other strikes, making it very difficult for the single handed weapons to keep up. 

And that is exactly what the other boy is banking on.

And secretly Corin is too.

The overhead swing comes at him fast. He thrusts his make-shift staff upward to block and hears the center of it crack. Corin slides back. The boy brings the other axe upward and Corin thrusts his staff into a low-block, but this time the axe blows through it and cuts it clean in half.

 _This is it_ , he thinks. _This is the end._

Corin is left with a stick in each hand. He feigns a valiant attempt to block the boy’s next few attacks. But Corin eventually let’s his grip slip against the brute force of the other boy’s strikes. And as Corin has planned, the sticks go flying and at last he is completely defenseless.

The other boy front-kicks Corin and his back smacks against a tree trunk. 

_Nowhere to go now. Excellent._

Corin’s brain is still generating ways to get out of this, but he suppresses these thoughts.

_No more fighting. I’m done._

The spike of one axe is thrust under his sternum.

Followed swiftly by the pick of another axe to the temple.

Corin waits for a painful death he knows will never come.

He wishes it would. 

It’s what he deserves.

But--

A cannon goes off in the distance.

\--That’s not how training simulations work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment to thank a few people. 
> 
> First, Lady Irina -- you have inspired me with your iconic series The Mandalorian, his son, and the Storm Trooper. The OCs you've created, especially Corin Valentis, are brilliantly crafted and deeply cherished by us all. The AU you have established is without a doubt one of the best things to come out of the Mandalorian fandom. And you, you are a genius writer that I can only hope to emulate. With all that said, I couldn't help but wonder...what would happen if I took your characters and stuck them in the murder games...which then turned into me completely re-writing the Hunger Games Trilogy with your characters...oops. XD I pray that in this AU crossover, I do your characters and their stories justice. Thank you for letting me at least try! 
> 
> Second, Miscellaneous Ace -- without your support and encouragement, I wouldn't have gotten this far. In fact, I wouldn't have started at all! You have dedicated countless hours to reading over my writing, brainstorming ideas with me, and helping me world build. You have lent me your genius on quite a few (okay many) occasions when I desperately needed the inspiration. In a way, this fic is your baby just as much as it is mine. Needless to say, I am humbly in your debt. Also thank you for being so unbelievably kind to me throughout this whole process. It means the world to me to have you in my corner. Lastly, I am so glad that we have become such good friends over these past several months. Again, I can't thank you enough!!!
> 
> And finally, Batvan and Alex -- you two youngins have been there through this whole process as well, always lifting me up with positive feedback and hilarious moments that I cherish more than you could ever know. Thank you Bats for being my #1 cheerleader and being my magical sitar that always speaks "The Troof". This diet boomer will stan you youngins for the rest of my days! 
> 
> To Lady Irina, Ace, Bats, Alex, and the rest of the Mandorin fandom: Thank you for making 2020 a little less horrible. I love you all so, so much!


	2. Chapter 2: Corin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corin will do whatever it takes to NOT become District 2's next Career Volunteer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who read, left kudos, and commented on the last chapter...I'm so excited yall are along for the ride! I never thought more than a few people would want to read my crazy crossover...so I'm just...like...wow! <3
> 
> Just to give you a look ahead as far as how Part 1 is organized...  
> Chapters 1-3*: Corin  
> Chapters 4-7: The Child  
> Chapter 8-10: Din
> 
> *From Chapter 3 onwards I will be adapting, with permission, azelmaroark's District 2 headcanon from livejournal (Sorry I can't figure out how to link it on Ao3 (help!), but a quick google search brings it up). XD Anyways, I hope to do it justice! Also the bracelet thing will be explained in the next chapter. Anything else about District 2 is adapted from the trilogy, of course.
> 
> I will try to upload bi-weekly from here on out.  
> Again, thank you so much for reading!

**  
THE ODDS**

**Part One: The Volunteers** ****

* * *

**CHAPTER 2: Corin**

* * *

_  
  
The show is not over yet _ , Corin reminds himself as he comes back to reality. _You need to be a sore loser. Make a scene. Storm out. Don’t give anyone enough time to see how_ relieved _you actually are._

As soon as he feels the needle slip out of the base of his skull, Corin yanks off the simulation helmet, its wires snapping, and then rips off the sensors stuck to his temples. The whole process is extremely painful, but he doesn’t even flinch. He slams a button to his right and launches himself out of the simulation capsule.

His personal trainer Nivida enters the room, a deep frown of disappointment on her face. Corin barely spares a glance as he blows past her and out the door. 

He needs to get out of here before Father finds him and starts his tirade. There will be no suspicion that he lost on purpose but … it is still a loss. In his father’s eyes, anything short of perfection from his son is unacceptable.

_I’ll deal with that later._

Corin bursts through the double doors and makes a beeline across the campus square to the Dorms. 

He doesn’t get that far.

Instead he is shoved in the back by someone coming at him full sprint.

All his training can not save him from tumbling ass-over-head and skidding a meter across the coarse stone pathway.

Corin barely has enough time to catch his breath before someone is on top of him, lifting him up by his lapel and slamming him back into the ground.

It’s his classmate from the simulation.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you Valentis?”

“What?” Corin wheezes.

The boy punches him in the face, “Don’t play dumb. We both know what you did.” 

Fear floods his whole body. _No, no, no. How does he know? And if he knows then who else--_

“You might have them fooled, but I know you screwed up on purpose.” Another strike to the face.

_Deny it._

“What are you talking about? You won fair-and-square.”

“Fair and--” The boy can’t even finish the phrase without scoffing, “ _Nothing_ about that simulation was _fair and square_.”

He slugs him again, but Corin ignores the pain and focuses on getting out from under the boy. He reaches across to grab the boy’s forearm in a monkey grip. His other hand slides up to grasp the tricep, locking the arm in. He brings one leg over the boy’s calf and the other tucked between the boy’s legs, then pitches his hips to the left, rolling them over. 

Corin is immediately on his feet, putting distance between them.

The other boy jumps to his feet and continues his rant. “Snowy Mountain Arena? Ice-axe weapons? You honestly expect me to believe that those were random selections? All the odds were in your favor, Valentis. Your father made sure of that, didn’t he?”

It’s most likely true. But he can’t admit to that.

“He doesn’t have a say in those selections and you know it,” He calmly explains. “Even if he _had_ rigged it in my favor, it didn’t make a difference. You _won_.”

“You _let_ me win! I refuse to enter the Hunger Games knowing someone _handed_ me my spot.”

_Convince him you wanted to win._

“Really? I’ve been training for the Hunger Games my whole life. Why would I let you win and give up my spot?”

“Because you’re a coward. You’re afraid of dying in the Hunger Games.”

 _No, I’m afraid of_ killing _in the Hunger Games._

“If that were true, I would have just forfeited.”

“Oh, you want to talk about forfeiting? You had multiple opportunities to finish me off in that simulation. But you dismissed each one. And there were at least three different ways you could have escaped that final blow, but you dismissed those too. That sounds an awful lot like forfeiting to me!”

“No, it sounds _ridiculous_ . I didn’t forfeit. I _lost_ . I wish it had ended in my favor but it didn’t. What more do you need to hear? _”_

_There’s no convincing him, Corin. Just walk away._

“So you _did_ want to win then?”

_Not at all._

“Of course, I did! I'm a Career, just like you. And a Career does whatever it takes to ensure victory."

“Then prove it. Right here and now. ”

“Prove it?”

“Let’s have a rematch. No missed kill shots, no losing on purpose. This time, you forfeit, you die. Just like the real Games.”

“You're out of your mind. I’m not going to fight you.” Corin turns and walks away.

He barely takes two steps before the other boy attacks. Spinning him around and kneeing him in the gut. Corin should have known the boy wasn’t going to let him go that easily.

The next few punches come at Corin rapid fire. He blocks them all, of course, but still refuses to retaliate.

This makes the other boy even more furious. His swings become even more vicious. _"Fight me_ , you coward.”

_Does he have a death wish?_

“No,” Corin grunts between blocks.

The boy grips his head and slams him with an elbow to the face.

Corin staggers, landing hard on one knee. The boy roundhouses the other side of his head and he drops like a rock. His ears are ringing now, and the other boy is still yelling at him but it’s too muffled to make out what he’s saying.

_Why is this happening? Didn’t I do everything right?_

A voice needles at the back of his brain. _You’re a failure even when you are trying to fail. Pathetic._

The boy kicks Corin while he’s down. “Fight--" Another kick, "--back.” 

“ _No,_ ” he grits out.

Corin looks into the boy’s crazed eyes and knows he is about to be murdered.

_If he murders you, he’ll be executed by the Capitol. And his death will be on your hands._

No. Corin can’t bear the thought of someone dying because of him. 

He resolves to incapacitate the boy. Maybe if he gets him in a lock, he can talk some sense into him.

By sheer force of will, Corin is able to prop himself up with one arm and block a blow coming at his face with the other. He brings his knee up to protect himself from a vicious kick to his stomach then uses the motion to roll himself to his knees. The other boy tries to move around him, but Corin turns with him and when he finds the right opportunity to stand, he pushes himself off the ground into a fighting position.

All he needs to do now is wait for the boy to start throwing punches again.

The boy throws out a jab.

Corin parries right.

Next comes the boy’s cross.

Corin parries this with his other hand.

There is a futile attempt at a hook from the other boy.

_Now!_

Corin steps in, palm strike to the chest, elbow slamming into the junction between the boy’s shoulder and collar bone. His hands then slip behind the boy’s head and he smashes the boy’s nose with his forehead. 

But Corin doesn’t let go just yet. Instead, with one hand, he pushes the boy’s head down, while the other hand slips underneath it. When he has the boy’s head tucked into his chest he clasps his hands together and squeezes his arms.

This neck lock should have the other boy tapping out, but like Corin, his pain tolerance is high. Still, the boy knows he is trapped and he growls in frustration.

Then--

The slow, punctuated claps of an onlooker cut through the air.

A measured voice speaks from behind them, “How _impressive_ , Valentis.” 

Corin shivers.

It’s Derge Thilleon, the Center’s Head Trainer. 

The man draws closer. 

“You bided your time--” 

Step.

“--let the fool wear himself out--”

Step. 

“--and then trapped him. 

Step.

“Your strategy has worked well thus far.”

Step.

“Why stop there?”

Corin raises his head. His eyes widen as he finally takes stock of his surroundings.

At least 30 people have gathered to watch this scene unfold, mostly trainers and trainees. Corin imagines there are many more bystanders behind him. Is his father among them?

He suppresses a wave of hysteria and tries to focus. Thilleon has asked him a question and is still waiting for an answer. He plays it back in his mind.

_Why stop there?_

“S-sir?” he croaks out.

“He said this is just like the real Games. Did he not?”

“Yes, but--”

Thilleon is now looming over his shoulder. His breath brushes against Corin’s ear as he commands, “Then do what must be done.” 

Corin’s blood runs cold.

_Is he--is he ordering me to--?_

_No._

_No!_

_This isn’t part of the plan at all!_

In fact, killing a kid is the complete _opposite_ of Corin's plan.

He glances down at the other boy. Feral eyes flash with fear as Corin’s biceps flex experimentally, cranking the boy’s neck just a little bit more.

_You’re a trained killer aren’t you? This should be easy. A bit more pressure and you'll have a textbook break._

Corin can’t deny that. He _is_ a killer. Red beads threaded through the black cords around his wrist are proof enough. But those kills were justifiable--hardened criminals that the Trainers had made him hunt down. He had to pass those tests to advance in the Training Program.

Killing a child though--

 _But isn’t this a test too?_ Another voice whispers insidiously, _Come on, Corin. Everybody is watching._ Father _is watching. Do you want them all to see what a_ failure _you are?_

Stepping around the boys, Thilleon comes into view. A chill runs down Corin’s spine as they finally lock eyes.

 _"End him, Valentis!”_ the man booms. 

To Corin's credit, he doesn't flinch-- an unfortunate product of being screamed at his entire miserable life. But this stony facade does nothing to diminish the absolute terror he feels on the inside.

“No,” he rasps, his throat too tight to produce anything more.

Thilleon sneers,“ _No?_ ”

Corin shakes his head once. Defeated, he replies, “I can’t...” _This boy doesn't deserve to die._

 _No, you know what?_

None _of them deserve to die!_

In a moment of clarity, Corin finds his resolve. "I _won't!"_ He releases the other boy with a shove, sending him stumbling backwards into Thilleon.

The series of events that follow happen so quickly that Corin doesn't even have time to shout 'stop', let alone physically intervene.

The other boy reaches back and snatches the blaster from Thilleon’s belt.

He turns and aims it at Corin’s chest, but before he can pull the trigger, Thilleon slips a forearm underneath, pulling the boy’s arm out of the way, then slams down his other forearm, breaking the boy’s elbow. 

His classmate is now screaming in agony. Unmoved, Thilleon grabs the boy's chin with one hand and the back of his skull with the other and wrenches the boy's head to the side.

A hideous crack silences the boy.

Corin’s eyes widen in horror.

The body crumples to the ground with a sickening thud.

Corin is completely frozen, unable to breathe or speak. His senses become muted like he's underwater.

He is only vaguely aware of Thilleon's presence at this point. The man jabs a button on his vambrace and his blaster flies back into his hand. He holsters it and turns to the first two trainers he sees. With a snap of his fingers, he barks, “You two. Clean this mess up.” Thilleon then turns to address the other bystanders. “The rest of you _clear out_.”

They don’t move right away, all of them still in shock.

“NOW!”

The crowd snaps back to reality and frantically disperses.

At last, Thilleon turns to address Corin. “When you show mercy, you relinquish your power. The moment you relinquish that power, the enemy has won. You’ll do well to remember that in the Arena, boy.” He steps forward and clamps a hand on Corin’s shoulder. Leaning in, he adds, “See you at the Reaping, Valentis,” and then walks away.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Questions are always welcome! :D


	3. Chapter 3: Corin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corin's past haunts him -- an unbidden reminder that he must do what is expected of him.  
> He must finally volunteer as District 2's Tribute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you all so much for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting. I am super grateful! And also very excited to share more with you about this crazy Mando x HG'verse!
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Abusive Parent -- aka Corin's dad :C
> 
> A couple notes. Because this fic is a crossover, I'll be adapting lines, scenes, and headcanons to fit within my AUs context. With that said, I want to cite a few sources:
> 
> 1\. From Chapter 3 onwards I will be adapting, with permission, azelmaroark's District 2 headcanon from livejournal (Sorry I can't figure out how to link it on Ao3 (help!), but a quick google search brings it up). -- I specifically reference D2 perspective on Career Tributes, the Bracelets, the levels of the Career Training Program, and the Oath Corin takes to receive his gold bead. I do not take credit for these ideas or explanations. Anything else about District 2 is adapted from the HG trilogy, of course.
> 
> 2\. I have pulled and adapted some lines from the following works by Lady Irina: Ice and Luck (first paragraph of this chapter), and Chained to Sorrow (in my chapter's flashback with Corin's dad, the part about not crying).
> 
> Again, thank you all for reading. And my unending gratitude goes to the iconic Lady Irina, my dear friend Ace, and my beta Arboreal!

**THE ODDS**

**Part One: The Volunteers** ****

* * *

**CHAPTER 3: Corin**

* * *

Good odds. Bad odds. Corin Valentis knows his entire life can be summed up with those factors: Good odds or bad odds. The odds were in his favor when he was born into one of the wealthiest families in District 2 -- he never had to worry about going hungry like all those masons' kids down by the quarries. The odds were against him when his father forced him to join the Career Training Program -- a straight track to becoming a high ranking Peacekeeper like himself. Good odds ensured that he succeeded in every aspect of training, but only enough to graduate third in his class and thus appease his father. (The top two trainees become District 2's next Career Tributes, and Corin _really_ doesn’t want to kill kids in the Hunger Games, thank you very much). The odds, however, are a fickle thing, and Corin knew, as he witnessed Derge Thilleon snap the neck of one of those Tributes yesterday, that the odds were decidedly not in his favor anymore.

Hence why he now finds himself standing in the middle of the city square with the rest of the children of their district waiting for a child’s name to be pulled from a glass ball, so he can take their place. 

The Reaping itself should have been a tragic situation, every kid scared out of their wits knowing that their name might be announced. Every parent in the square, pale and full of dread, thinking of how this could lead to the televised execution of their child.

But in District 2, every man, woman, and child is completely at ease.

Why?

Because nothing is at stake. There will _always_ be a Volunteer to take the place of those unfortunate enough to be chosen in The Capitol’s sick and twisted lottery.

These Volunteers come from a place called the Athletic and Personal Growth Center. The Center is used as a pre-Games Career training facility. The trainees are treated as something between pro athletes and heroes within District Two, and they wear a bracelet to identify themselves. Everyone knows what the bracelet is for, and everyone knows that year’s Volunteer didn’t just spring up out of the woodwork. It’s common knowledge but not explicitly stated. Average citizens see it as quasi-magical, something they don’t talk about but everyone knows and believes in. They like to see the trainees wearing the bracelets because it reminds them that their own children are safe. Much ado is made of the honor, service and sacrifice they are making.

Corin scans the city square packed full of children. The bracelets aren’t something you would notice at first, not in this kind of crowd, but he knows what to look for. He knows that up front where all the twelve-year-olds stand there are a plethora of bracelets; usually a hundred or so candidates at their stage of training. He also knows that the farther back you go, the older the kids get, the fewer bracelets you tend to see -- Thirteens? Eighty bracelets. Fourteens? Forty. Fifteens? Twenty-five. Sixteens? Ten -- at most. The bracelets become even more scarce for seventeen-year-olds -- about three. The severe drop in numbers reflects how competitive the training gets when transitioning from Prep One to Prep Two to Full-time Residency.

Corin concludes his scan, not bothering to count bracelets on the eighteen-year-olds. He knows only two people are wearing them this year: Himself and--

“I volunteer as Tribute!”

\--Fennec Shand.

All eyes turn to the girl who has raised her hand like a beacon of hope.

The cameras zoom in to get a good look at the Career Tribute, who has angled herself for the perfect shot, just like she has practiced for the past five years. And although her features are striking in real life, they are even more striking on the big screen: her flowing black locks are a stark contrast to her smooth, alabaster skin and gold eyes, almost luminous in the late morning sun. Corin surmises that any Kage child would look just as alluring on camera. 

But he is in the minority when it comes to describing the Kage species. Most humans in Panem would attest that Kages look absolutely _terrifying_. The prejudice against the Kage is especially virulent in District 2, due to a highly segregated population: Upper-class military families, almost exclusively human, and lower-class Masonry families, almost exclusively Kage. No doubt the Capitol fosters this as part of their scheme to divide Humans and Non-humans throughout Panem. After all, they designed the Treaty of Treason and the Hunger Games exactly for that purpose.

In his mind, Corin hears the eerily composed voice of President Gideon reading it out -- _In penance for their uprising, each District shall offer up one Human and one Alien between the ages of twelve and eighteen at a public reaping._

Corin’s eyes fixate on the bracelet around Fennec’s wrist. It is a series of braided rope strands studded with beads and held in place by a metal clip. Trainees receive one cord for each stage of the program, dyed to reflect their class rank: black for the top students, then blue, then white. During their training, milestones are marked with beads of various colors. In the Games, their bracelet is their token. Those who return Victors receive wrist tattoos where the bracelet would be, as a reminder of who they will always belong to--The Capitol. 

Each cord of Fennec Shand’s bracelet is pure black, most of her beads are green and orange. There are a few red and only one silver. The largest bead is made of pure gold.

Corin clenches his hand into fist. The gold bead on his own bracelet presses against the bones in his wrist and the cords pinch his skin. He let’s these sensations ground him and ready him for what’s to come. But all it does is remind him how he “earned” the gold bead.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and wills away the image of a young boy getting his neck snapped and the hideous sound it created. Corin’s memory moves on to the oath he took only yesterday at his graduation ceremony…

_Dirge Thilleon places a gold bead in Corin’s palm. “May your every heartbeat bring honor and glory to District Two and to the Capitol,” he recites nobly, even as his expression hints at the disdain he harbors towards Corin, “What is freely given cannot be withdrawn. You have knowingly and willingly dedicated yourself to the triumph of our great nation, forfeiting your rights and privileges in favor of service to the Capitol. Do you vow to volunteer as Tribute for the 45th Annual Hunger Games, to slaughter every Tribute necessary to rise victorious, and to remain a faithful servant of President Gideon until your last heartbeat?”_

_Corin unclenches his jaw long enough to manage, “I do.”_

_Thilleon nods “I accept your offering of service with the whole heart through which it is given. Long live Panem and President Gideon.”_

_“Long live,” Corin echoes, voice never wavering, despite how much he wants to cry. He can feel his father’s eyes burning holes into the back of his skull._

Corin opens his eyes, wanting to flee from this memory, but instead he finds himself staring into the distant past. 

_His father looks upon him with disgust. “Your mother may have encouraged this kind of behavior, and I tolerated it, for her sake, but no more. Sentiment is weakness, a distraction from achieving all that you are meant to be. And friendship is sentiment in its vilest form. You are--”_

_“But--” Six-year-old Corin peeps. Tears are blurring his vision._

_His father grabs his face with one large hand, fingers clamping around his jaw painfully. “Shut-up. Did I give you permission to speak?”_

_Corin can’t even shake his head no, let alone say it._

_“You are a Valentis. All others are beneath us. We accept none as our equal. A Valentis doesn’t have_ **_friends_ ** _.” He spits out the last word with such contempt._

 _Corin trembles, tears rolling down his face. He tries to look away, ashamed. But his father jerks his head up. “Look at me.” Corin’s eyes snap back to his. “Stop your sniveling. Right now.”_ _His voice is hard with barely restrained rage. “No son of mine will be simpering like a little girl. I don't ever want to see you cry again. You hear me?” Macero orders him, staring into the boy’s eyes._

_Yes, Father, Corin thinks, swallowing a sob and blinking away his tears. Never again, I promise._

_Something in his father’s expression shifts, the corner of his mouth quirks. And at first, Corin thinks he might be letting up, but then--_

_His father’s voice is deadly calm, menacing, yet almost...amused. “One strike and I could break this jaw of yours, boy. Then you’d have something to really cry about. But I won't, and you want to know why?”_

_The rhetorical silence hangs heavy between them. He knows Corin still can’t reply when his mouth is being held shut._

_His father leans in. “Because I want you to give that pansy friend of yours a message. I want you to tell him that you don’t associate yourself with Kage mutts. You tell him to crawl back to the cave he came from. You tell him never to return.” He finally releases Corin, “Do you understand?"_

_Corin only nods, not trusting his own voice. He fights the urge to rub his aching jaw._

_“I said,_ **_do you understand_ ** _?”_

 _“Y-yes, sir.”_ _  
__  
__“Good. Now get out of my face.”_

 _Corin turns to go._  
 _  
_“Oh, and one other thing.”

_Corin turns back slowly, belly full of dread._

_“I pulled some strings. They are letting you into the Training Program early. You start in three days,”_ _his father informs him, “Be ready.”_

Corin’s eyes flutter open and he’s back in the city square.

_Be ready._

The Escort’s amplified voice reverberates in his skull. "And our Human Tribute from District Two is--

 _I wasn’t ready. At no point was I ever_ **_ready_ ** _._

“--Slate Morado."

_And I’m not ready now._

A beat of silence.

_Doesn’t matter if you’re ready. All that matters is doing what is expected of you._

Corin steels himself and raises a hand. "I volunteer,” he flashes a charming smile, even as his heart weeps. This is saving one kid’s life, but twenty three will still die, maybe even by his own hand. “I volunteer as a Tribute!" He confirms before his throat closes up completely.

All eyes turned to him, not an ounce of surprise. 

It was expected. 

It was _always_ expected. 

And Corin must do what is expected of him.

Even if that means proudly announcing his own funeral to all of Panem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated--The feedback is invaluable. And questions are always welcome! :D


	4. Chapter 4: The Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come see Panem through the eyes of our beloved Child.  
> Though he's had his fair share of pain and suffering,  
> his innocence shines bright and his spirit remains unbroken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting and kudo-ing and subscribing and omg yall are just so awesome! <3 Also 10,000 thank you's to Lady Irina, Ace, and my beta Arboreal!
> 
> I'm so excited to present to you The Child's POV. I really hope you enjoy his "voice" and how he perceives the world. Note: The Child is still the same species as from the show. But for the sake of the Hunger Games universe...His species ages at about the same rate humans do. In this story, he is technically 10 years old...but in many ways still very much...baby. You'll see! :D

**  
  
THE ODDS**

**Part One: The Volunteers** ****

* * *

**CHAPTER 4: The Child**

* * *

  
  
The brush of tiny webby window wings.

Rustling like old paper. 

One, two...three......four!

Bubble eyes, shiny as a tin bucket.

Long and pointy.

Berry blue with a sunburst on its tummy.

Smaller than an apple, faster than a train. 

Hot-soup air don’t keep this buggy down!

It skips along the marshes muddy edge.

And then…

It tip-toes on a twig.

Lots and lots of flying.

Very, very tired.

Gotta rest.

Oh no!

Watch out!

_BLEP._

Sticky tongue tape. 

Soft and stretchy.

Hugs the bug.

And tugs it back to a wide-open mouth.

GULP.

All gone.

The froggy smiles. So full, so happy.

Bumpy, green neck blows up, up ,up and--

_brrrrr...mrrrhrrr...mrrrhrr….brrrrr_

The sleepy cow song!

Froggy ain’t gonna hear nothin’ comin’.

Claw feet squelch in the egg-smelly mud.

Creep, crawl, creep, crawl.

Hop.

_PLOP_.

Gobble.

“Child, you eatin’ them frogs again?!” 

_Oh no! Miss Matron!_

_GULP_.

“What’d I tell you about eatin’ them dang frogs? Don’t you remember the last time? You was sick for three days straight!”

An old, heavy set woman grabs the child’s hand and gently tugs him away from the swamp and back into line with the other orphans.

Under her breath, she scolds, “Always up to no good. You know, one these days you gonna git inna trouble with the authorities. Good thing you don’t talk much. Or else it’d happened sooner!”

The child’s large, green ears droop and he looks at the ground. 

But inside he’s singing.

_Froggy, froggy._

_You so yummy._

_Yummy, yummy, in my tummy!_

He thinks of catching one for Miss Matron next time. Maybe if she tries a frog and realizes how tasty they are, she’ll be less grumpy.

The children arrive at a rusty, old pick-up. One-by-one they climb onto the truck bed.

The Matron looks down at The Child and nods to the truck. “Well, up you git.” 

The Child raises his arms to be lifted.

With a frown, she shakes her head, “Nuh-uh.You may be tiny, Child. But I’ve seen you climb them trees.”

His arms stay raised, his face wide-eyed and innocent.

She always lifts him.

_Always._

“Don’t try that look on me,” The Matron chides.

He tilts his head, feigning ignorance.

The woman sighs, long-suffering. “Oh, alright. But this is that last time. You hear?” She picks The Child up and plops him down on the truck bed, then smiles fondly. “I swear, those doe-eyes could melt a beskar heart.”

_Bis - kah._

_Biskah._

He doesn’t know what _Biskah_ is...

But he wants to.

Maybe he can ask Miss Matron--

_NO!_

The Child’s ears flick in agitation.

_Bad things happen when you ask questions._

_People get all loud._

_People make you hurt._

_Be small._

_Be quiet._

_Disappear._

_Nothin’ can hurt you if you ain’t there._

The Child curls in on himself, and like so many times before, remains silent.

It’s truly a shame because what The Child loves more than anything else--

More than frogs,

More than trees,

More than games,

\--is _learning things_.

Some mornings he pretends the big truck is taking them all to school. Just how the kids with mommies and daddies do when the Harvest season is all done. He imagines himself learning to read books. Miss Matron has a few hidden under a floorboard in her bedroom. Those books have stories in them. And he likes stories. He imagines learning numbers too. Long numbers. Like the ones the grown boys call out when loading up apple crates. Like the ones on his wrist and the wrists of the other kids at Dagobah Orphanage.

But then The Child remembers…

He’s one of The Forsaken.

The Forsaken aren’t good for nothin’ but workin’ in the orchards and fields. They learn only enough to do the things they’re told to do. For him, it's counting apple baskets. He only needs to know up to _tin_ , but Miss Matron’s taught him up to _twinny_.

But just ‘cause he don’t go to school, don’t mean he ain’t learnin’!

The Child is jolted out of his daydreams when the truck hits The Pothole. 

His ears perk up.

The Pothole signals that they’re about to drive through his favorite part of Zone C.

He uncurls himself and peers over the rim of the truck bed.

_The Sillum Fields!_

Yeah, he ain’t good with numbers, but he’s good with plants. They don’t got no mouths, but they talk to him with magic. 

And sillum herbs talk _real_ loud. 

Always hollerin’,

_We the same as you._

_We heal people too._

He looks up at Miss Matron and beams. “Sillum!” 

“Well I’ll be! It’s the nycillim fields,” she exclaims in surprise, as if they don’t pass through the fields every morning and every night. 

The Child watches the people hunched over the plants, picking off the spotted, pink pods. They are taller than him but short than The Matron, with thick tree-root legs, tiny arms, and four-fingered hands. They got long necks and small potato heads with black-cherry eyes.

“Turtle People!”

The Matron gives him a disapproving frown, but her eyes sparkle with humor. “Now, now. Be nice. You know that ain’t what we call ‘em. Say, _Felucians_.”

“Fuh-loo-shuns,” The Child repeats carefully. 

She gives him a pleased smile and he smiles back.

He loves The Turtle People. They take good care of them Sillum herbs. Mhmm!

He manages to wave at the Turtle People once before Miss Matron is tugging on his overalls. He plops back down on the truck bed next to her and they ride the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

_Way up high in the apple tree,_

_Tin red apples smiled down at me!_

_Twisted’em, picked’em quick as’ah could_

_One popped off, it was good!_

_Way up high in the apple tree,_

_Nan red apples smiled down at me!_

The Child uses two gloved claws to cup and twist at a ripe red apple and then places it in a big canvas sack strapped to his tiny body. The sack is getting pretty full and it hurts his back a lot, but if he sings while picking, it doesn’t bother him as much. 

_Don’t make no sound when you’re singin’._

_Them mockingjays’ll start whistlin’ your tune._

_And the Orchard Master’ll get real mad._

_Don’t wanna get punished again!_

The Child reaches out for the last apple, but it’s a little too high up. He hops to another branch and tries again, this time on his tippy toes.

He almost has it when he senses some of the apples tumbling out of the sack.

_OH NO!_

He uses his magic to catch the apples and draw them back to the sack. Then he freezes.

_Did anybody see me?_

The Child adjusts his oversized nighttime goggles and warily peers out at the moving figures in the darkness.

_Nope._

_All good._

_Good, good, good._

He reaches for the last apple once again, uses a tiny bit of magic to get it off the branch and then places it in the sack. He gives a satisfied smile.

A little wookie-girl calls up to him and he lets out a squeak of surprise. In Wookieespeak, she scolds, _“Oowhwo wararo aoacworo cwowo rooohu. Rooohu acrahowo rhahrr akrcoorhanwosc. Aoacworo achurcao rooohu rhrawa!”_

The Child can’t speak the Shyriiwook language, almost nobody in District 11 can, but he can understand it with his mind magic:

_One day they see you. You have big problem. They hurt you bad!_

He shivers a little and remembers what The Red Woman told him when he was first dropped off at Dagobah Orphanage. Don’t use The Force. Never ever. The Capitol will take you away if they find out you got it.

_But nobody see’d him!_

_All good._

_Good good good._

He holds his apple sack tightly and hops easily from branch to branch, until, at last, he lands next to the wookie-girl.

She has come back with an empty basket.

He waddles over to it, loosens the drawstring at the bottom of the apple sack and lets the apples tumble into the basket.

A mockingjay lands on his shoulder expectantly.

_Yay!_

_Time to go home!_

Oh but there’s one more thing he’s got to do. (And it's his favoritest thing to do!)

The Child whistles the four note tune that signals the end of the workday.

The mockingjay then flies off, trilling The Child’s tune:

_Do, DEE, do, do, it sings._

_Work day all done, it says._

Throughout the orchard, mockingjays whistle the tune again and again:

_DoDEEdodoDoDEEdodoDODEEDODO!_

He giggles, and looks over to Wookie-girl.

But she’s not giggling like she usually does.

Instead she’s struggling to lift the apple basket. When she can’t manage that, she tries to tug it behind her.

She looks tired.

Very, very tired.

And he feels her hurting.

So much pain.

The Light leaks from her body like water in a rusty tin can.

It’s a bad day for Wookie-girl.

A bad, bad day.

His ears droop.

One time he asked, “Why your body don’t work right?”

So she told him a story.

When she was a wookie-baby, her wookie-parents tried to run away from District 11. It happened during something called a “black-out” when there’s no lights and none of the electric things work. Her wookie-parents tried to climb the Giant Fence. Wookie-girl’s mommy wrapped wookie-baby up nice and tight so she could rest on her chest. It was going good, but, half-way up, the electricity started working again and they got zapped. Then they all fell down. The mommy and daddy didn’t wake up after that, but the wookie-baby did. So the Peacekeepers dropped her off at Dagobah and took her parents somewhere else. Now she walks slow and talks slow. And some days she gets tired and hurts a whole lot. But only some days.

The Child helps her on those days.

And today is one of those days.

He scampers over to her and takes some of the apples out and puts them back in his canvas sack. Then they walk back to the warehouse together.

It doesn’t take long for the squall to find him.

Squall look like rabbits with their floppy ears and hoppy-legs, but they have bushy tails like foxes do. They’re always begging workers for treats and, even though taking food from the Capitol stores isn’t allowed, The Child can’t help but slip them an apple or two on his way to the warehouse. 

The animals sniff at him and the apples in his canvas sack. One of them is over-eager, hopping up to look in the sack and nearly toppling The Child in the process. (It wouldn’t take much to do so, the top of his head barely reaches people’s knees and squall are more than half his size.)

The Child giggles and hands the over-eager squall a particularly juicy apple, after which it bounds off into the night. He tosses another apple to the chirping animals and watches them scramble after their prize. He hums a happy tune underneath his breath as he hands out another apple:

_Brown squall, brown squall_

_Swish yer bushy tail!_

_Hold an apple ‘tween yer toes_

_Wrinkle up yer little nose!_

_Brown squall, brown squall,_

_Swish yer bushy tail!_

“What is _this?_ ” A deep voice hisses from behind him. “Vermin feeding the _vermin_?”

A staff strikes The Child’s back on the final word. A sharp pain cuts through his body and he screeches. He tumbles forward and then cowers.

He did not Sense Master coming.

He did not Sense Master behind him.

He cannot Sense Master even now.

Because Master is a Nothing-Man.

The Child whimpers.

The Nothing-Men are bad. 

Very, very bad. 

And scary. 

Very, very scary. 

The Child squeezes his eyes shut 

_Well, at least he ain’t The Red Doctor_ , he thinks, but it doesn’t make him feel any less afraid.

Master circles around and glares down at the Child. When a squall tries to snatch an apple near his feet, he kicks it away. The squall's yelp is abruptly silenced as it hits the wall with a loud thud. 

Now the squall is a Nothing too.

Master rolls the child over with the toe of his boot and growls, “Do you know what happens to _Kanabar_ who steal from the Capitol?”

The Child’s eyes snap open and he stares up in horror. 

Master’s whip isn’t made of any leather, no, it’s a black snake, an amphistaff.

The snake snaps at him threateningly, and The Child flinches.

His eyes then travel from the man’s whip to the man himself.

Face like a skull - short-stub nose, sunken cheeks and eyes.

Sloping, ridge-like forehead with angry tattoos. Pointy ears. 

Thick skin the color of ash. Covered head to toe in hard, crab-shell armor.

“They get _whipped,_ ” Master snarls.

Suddenly a shaggy brown figure hides Master from view.

_It is the wookie-girl!_

_Wookie-girl help me!_

She growls out Basic best she can but it’s slow going, “Hayee do... ak-sanen...acci-den-tuh… ha-yee sorra-yee…no whi-m-huh… no whi-puh!”

_He do accident. He sorry. No whip. No whip!_

“ _Yuth ugg, bar!_ ” Master snaps in a strange language, whipping the girl across the chest, causing her to stumble backwards and fall. The man lifts his whip again to strike The Child, but Wookie-girl curls her larger body over his to shield him. The girl cries out in pain as she is struck again but she does not move away.

The Child gives a distressed whine. He can’t Sense the Master, but he _can_ Sense the girl. He feels her pain as if the Master struck him instead.

The Child desperately wants to stop Master with his magic - freeze his arm or push him away - but Master is a Nothing-Man and that means there’s nothing in him to freeze or push. The Child has to find a different way to stop Master. 

_Inside Nothing._

_Outside Something._

Blocked from Master’s view by the girl’s hunched body, The Child reaches out a little clawed-hand and uses his power to pull two large wooden crates down on Master. One of them hits its mark and it knocks the Nothing-Man to the ground. He lies unmoving in a heap of shiny red apples.

The two children scramble to their feet and make a run for it--

Well a limp for it, at least.

Right as they come within view of the old pick-up truck that’ll take them home, The Child tugs Wookie-girl behind a tree and motions to her chest and back. He reaches out, but she flinches.

“I help. I heal,” assures the soft-spoken Child.

She relaxes a bit and he focuses on healing her as best he can.

A shimmering silver light binds together the deep whip lashes, until all that’s left are two scars hidden under a shaggy coat of hair. When he’s finished, they make their way to the truck.

Miss Matron’s worried voice calls out to them. “Oh thank Gideon! Where’ve you two bin? You got me worried sick!” She gives them a once-over and then shoos them on towards the truck. “Come now. Up you git,” 

After a mighty struggle, the tired, hurting Wookie-girl manages to climb up onto the truck bed.

The child raises his arms and waits.

Miss Matron must not have time to argue, because instead of complaining like usual, she makes an annoyed huff and lifts him onto the truck bed.

The children ride home in silence.

Under the cover of darkness, The Child trembles like a leaf.

_Bad dreams are-a-comin’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment if you can and let me know what you think of The Child's POV! And as always questions are welcome! <3


	5. Chapter 5: The Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We now enter into the dream-world of our Beloved Child where we will encounter curiosities, terrors, and revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back. So sorry for not updating. I had the chapter ready to go...but a lot of stuff happened in RL. All in the same week, I came out as agender to...well...literally everyone I know...and I also picked up a second job. I now work 7 days a week...so my updates may slow down a bit. But I'll do my very best to stay consistent now that things have settled down. If you are still reading the fic...then...thank you so much! Your support (and your patience) means a lot to me. <3
> 
> As always, my thanks go to Lady Irina, Miscellaneous Ace, and Arboreal my beta.
> 
> WARNING: The Child gets man-handled and yelled at in this nightmare sequence. So be prepared for some distressing moments. But all will be soothed by the end of the chapter. So stick with it! Oh and the formatting of the text (the spacing) is intentional, to reflect the disjointedness feel of the dream. :)
> 
> Enjoy!!!! :D

**THE ODDS**

**Part One: The Volunteers** ****

* * *

**CHAPTER 5: The Child**

* * *

Cattail reeds part like pages in a book.

Tread softly, creep slowly.

Dusk glints off the slick, spotted skin of a froggy.

It hops.

And The Child steps.

It stops.

Then the froggy chuckles.

Little cheeks puffin’ in, out, in, out.

_Can’t catch me!_

The Child huffs and takes another step.

Froggy slips back into the reeds.

Step, hop, step, hop, step, hop.

They pop out of the cattails.

White, white, everywhere, white.

Above, a nectarine sky.

Sometimes the clouds come down.

Visit the pond and hug it tight.

Froggy’s chucklin’ again.

_Never gonna catch me now!_

One big leap.

Splat.

Froggy found the shore.

The Child lifts a hand to push --

WHOOSH.

\--He rolls the white away.

_Found you, froggy!_

The Child tries to grab it.

But froggy jumps into the deep, dark pond.

Gone.

The water ripples, then goes still.

He frowns down at himself.

Only...it’s not _grown_ -him... it’s _baby_ -him!

Tiny and pale green.

With big, brown eyes.

Sad eyes.

And two big ears.

Too big.

And a little, wrinkly head topped with peach fuzz.

He looks...so... _real_.

_Imma poke ‘im!_

The Child reaches out to poke The Baby.

The Baby reaches back.

Their fingers touch but…

The water goes _clink._

He taps his nail against the surface.

_Clink , clink, clink._

Frozen like ice --

He slaps it with his palm now.

_Thunk._

Not ice.

_Thunk._

GLASS.

The Baby rears back in horror.

_THUNK._

His head smacks against something hard.

THE GLASS IS BEHIND HIM TOO.

He turns to run away.

GLASS.

The other way?

GLASS.

Something tugs at his arms.

Tiny tubes attached.

Something tugs on his head.

Wires.

_Beep._

What’s that?

_Beep._

A buggy?

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

A birdy?

_Beep-beep-beep-beep_

He ain’t never heard a sound like that.

Why is it so loud?

_Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep--_

His breath speeds up.

And so does the beeping.

Too loud.

Too loud!

Then…

_Beep._

A voice…

_Beep._

The Baby goes still and silent.

_Beep._

He hears words but they don’t make no sense. All mumbled and jumbled. “Quick Pershing. Go fetch The Doctor. Tell him YR-66 has woken.”

_Beep._

Doctor?

_Beep_.

“Yes, ma’am.”

_Beep._

THE RED DOCTOR.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

A woman with red skin and a tight bun of black hair peers at The Baby through the glass. She presses a few buttons on a machine to the left, and then types something on her tablet.

THE RED WOMAN.

_Beep-beep-beep-beep_

Whenever The Red Woman arrives, The Red Doctor soon follows.

_Beepbeepbeepbeep--_ The Baby starts frantically pulling off all the wires and tubes, whimpering and wincing at the pain it creates.

_Gotta get out of here!_

_Gotta run away!_

The woman’s cold black eyes flash with surprise. She spits out a Bad Word and slams on a button connected to the tube he’s in. As the glass door opens, The Baby yanks the final wire from his chest. And at last, the beeping stops. The Red Woman tries to grab him, but he’s too small, and too fast to catch. Like a slippery little froggy The Baby hops out of the tube and bounds for the huge metal door. He bangs against it with a pitiful whine.

_OPEN. OPEN. OPEN._

Click.

WHOOSH.

The door opens, but at that exact moment, The Red Woman tries to snatch him up. The Baby squeals in terror.

_OFF. OFF. OFF._

He hears her fall backward with a thud, but can’t be bothered to look. All he cares about right now getting out of the room. People are coming for him. He can hear the rumble of their voices getting closer.

_Quick!_ _Go the other way!_

The Baby patters down the hallway as quick as his stubby legs can carry him. There are doors on both sides, none of them open, all of them marked with strange symbols:

_FS-394_

_FS-393_

_FS-392_

_FS-391_

_FS-390_

As he passes by each one he feels a burst of phantom pain.

There are people behind those doors.

No... _children_.

All alone.

And hurting.

The Baby shivers and wishes he could run faster.

At last, he comes to a door at the end of the hallway. It has a symbol on it: sharp red lines that almost look like a giant eye.

The Baby lays a hand on the door and it tingles.

_There are Many behind this door._

The Baby feels The Many’s Energy mingle with his own.

_I GO IN._

The door doesn’t budge.

He uses both hands this time. And gathers up his Energy with The Many’s Energy.

**_I GO IN!_ **

The door barely unlocks before it is smashed to the side.

_Magic hands._

_I gots magic hands!_

The Baby tumbles into the room with a squeak. Once he's back on two feet, he faces the door, and with a clench of his fist, the door slams shut.

_Can’t have nobody followin’ me in!_

Finally he turns around--and gasps.

_Bluuue._

BLUE. BLUE. **_BLUE_**.

Six blue-skinned girls with long jet-black hair sit along either side of the wall, legs criss-crossed, eyes closed in meditation.

The Baby toddles forward.

A pair of glowing red eyes snap open.

Then another. 

And another. 

Until a dozen of those striking eyes are peering at him curiously.

_Hello, Little One._

They say in unison, though their mouths do not move.

_Are you lost?_

_  
__  
_Their Voice sounds...kind. Maybe he can trust them?

The Baby hiccups and begins to tremble.

They all rise to their feet in one fluid movement and gaze down at him with deep concern. He gazes back, mesmerized by their eyes, redder and shinier than the ripest apple.

_We can help you, Little One._

One of the blue-skinned girls reaches out tentatively.

The Baby stumbles back with a frightened yelp.

Another catches him before he topples over.

A few of the girls kneel beside him.

One offers her hand.

After a brief moment of hesitation, The Baby toddles forward and places his tiny clawed hand in hers. Her palm is cool to the touch and it soothes him.

Suddenly, the girl’s eyes glow even brighter than before as The Light fills her. It then stretches out like the branches of a weeping willow and fills up the other girls too. Their eyes grow bright as well. 

In his mind, The Baby sees flickers of images, not many he can make sense of, but it turns out he doesn’t need to. The girls do it for him.

**A flash of blue eyes filled with tears, like shimmering frost on larkspur.**

_You must find the sad boy_ , the blue girls instruct.

**The Child in a cage, ice crawling up the bars. An ax smashes through them. A gentle hand scoops him up.**

_He will show you the freedom you have never known: to be yourself without fear._

**A honey-gold bird leaves the nest for the first time. Its wings flail. The Child makes the wind blow and the bird soars.**

_You will believe in him in a way no one ever has. Only then will he trust his heart._

**A flash of dark eyes hardened by pain, flicker and glow like burning coal.**

_You must find the angry boy._

**An arrow released from a bow with a twang, swish, thunk.**

_He will protect you in a way no one ever could. Whoever targets you will become his target._

**The Child presses smooth, cool metal against his brow. Two hearts connect and love floods them like a river in heavy rain.**

_You will give him a hope he has deprived himself of: a new family and home._

**A room full of children laughing and playing. All different types. All sharing one special Power.**

_And the Forsaken will be Found._

_The Forsaken will be Found._

_The Forsaken will be Found._

Each blue-girl echoes one after the other.

It goes silent.

Then…

Everything shudders.

A blood-curdling scream.

More screams.

The blue girls are all screaming!

The Baby’s eyes snap open.

RED. RED. RED. The room pulses angrily.

_Run._ They shriek in his mind.

_Runrunrunrunrun--_

_RUN._

_Runrunrunrunrun--_

_YOU MUST RUN._

_RUNRUNRUNRUNRUN--_

The shrieking is cut off.

_He’s coming for you_ , a voice hisses. 

It doesn’t sound like the blue girls anymore.  
  


BOOM. 

BOOM. 

BOOM.

_The Red Doctor is coming for you._

Click.

A high pitch buzz pierces his ears.

The door slides open.

_The Red Doctor..._

_...is_ **_here_ ** _._

The sinister voice bleeds into the static and disappears. The blue girls are all gone now, replaced by a dark silhouette looming in the doorway. The Doctor steps into the light, revealing more and more red...red...RED.

The Baby curls over and covers his head, whimpering softly. _Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me, please--_

“YR-66. So small, yet full of so much power. But how much remains to be **_seen_ **.” The Red Doctor snatches him up by the collar. The Baby shrieks in terror and flails as he tries to get out of the man’s clutch. 

_OFF. OFF. OFF._

Depthless black eyes squint at him dubiously. “Mind tricks?” He uses his other hand to hold The Baby’s chin still, forcing him to lock eyes with the red man. 

_OFFOFFOFFOFFOFF!_

_It...it ain't workin'._

_Why ain't it workin'?!_

The Doctor scowls, “You are the 66th reiteration I’ve designed and given life to. Those tricks haven’t worked on me since YR-23.”

The Baby starts squirming again, trying again to escape, but to no avail. He whines pitifully and, after a few seconds of struggling, finally goes limp. 

He sobs weakly.

“You shouldn’t have run off. You _shouldn’t_ have, but you _did_ \-- destroying equipment, then throwing my wife to the ground. And _you_ \-- You could have been damaged. You could have been _lost_ .” His grip tightens on The Baby’s collar and his clothes pinch his arms. “DO YOU HAVE ANY _IDEA_ HOW LONG IT TAKES TO CREATE ONE OF YOU? I WOULD HAVE HAD TO START _ALL_ **_OVER_ ** _!_ ” He shakes The Baby for emphasis and it wails, terrified. The Red Doctor loosens his grip and tucks the flailing child under his arm. His growling can barely be heard over The Baby’s screeches of distress. “Forty-five years. FORTY-FIVE _YEARS_ , it’s taken me!” He gives The Baby a look of absolute loathing. “Are you going to fail me too, 66? Hmm--?”

The Red Doctor’s voice is cut off by a low hum. 

Zmmmmmmmm.

_Ch’acin’t._

_Sweetheart._

The red fades and so does the crushing pressure around The Baby’s body.

Zmmmmmmmm.

_K’ir nah’csehn._

_Do not fear._

An invisible force gently envelops him in soft orange cloth. 

Zmmmmmmmm.

_Ch’ah saart von vah._

_I am with you._

As The Baby is cradled, safe and warm. He thinks of how much he loves orange. 

Zmmmmmmmm.

_Nah baesah non._

_We leave now._

The Child’s lids droop, then close. He is not sure how much time passes before he hears the soothing voice again.

_Ch’itkashn veo g’evotis, En’kin’at._

_Open your eyes, Little One._

The Child opens his eyes and watches the orange cloth blend with the blushing sky above.

Dusk turns to twilight.

Stars appear in the inky blue void like freckles on a face.

The night sky awakens, opening it’s glowing red eyes to peer down at The Child.

His own eyes widen with wonderment and his mouth parts.

**_The Blue Lady._**

He reaches up to touch her night-sky skin, but she vanishes.

The wind carries with it a whisper...

_Csact’i ch’at vav_

_Time to wake up._

The Child’s body slowly rolls over and once again he sees his reflection in the pond, only this time it is not a baby, it is only him, surrounded by a sparkling mirror of stars.

He slips into the water.

And sits up in his bed.

___________________

The Child’s heart is a hummingbird fluttering in his chest. His eyes frantically scan the room, lit only by weak moonlight. 

No reds, no blues, only greys.

His large ears twitch as he listens carefully. 

No beeps or buzzes...only the soft breathing of fifteen sleeping children.

Still, he shudders with the lingering shadow of fear.

It was only a nightmare, he knows, and he’s had many before, but this one felt realer than the others he’s had.

He whines and clutches his blankie close to his chest, but that does nothing to comfort him. The material is coarse and threadbare--nothing like The Blue Lady's soft orange cloth which wrapped him up tight and made him feel so safe. 

In the end, he decides to do what he always does when he has a bad dream: 

Go find Miss Matron.

The Child does one last scan of his surroundings before hopping out of bed and darting across the room. He reaches the door leading to the back-room where Miss Matron sleeps, cracking the door just enough to slip through. (He doesn’t want its squeaky-squall sounds waking up the other children.) He creeps up to her and tugs on her night-dress.

She mumbles in her sleep, "Git outta that wheelbarruh, Leven-free!"

The Child tugs a little harder, but Miss Matron goes on grumblin'. "Wild child. I swear, one of these days, imma stuff y'inna sack and throw y'in the rivuh!"

He huffs in frustration and uses one pointy nail to poke her in the belly.

Miss Matron shoots up in bed, looking all around. "Huh? Who's there?" Eventually her eyes settle on The Child and her expression softens with recognition. “Oh! What’s wrong, sweet pea? You have another nightmare?”

He pouts and nods.

She sighs in sympathy. “Well, hop up then. There you go.”

He climbs onto the bed. “Story, please.” His voice is small and hopeful.

“You want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

He hums and curls up next to her.

“Which one?”

“Magic.”

“The Magic People?”

He nods, big brown eyes light up with anticipation.

“Alright, then," she concedes in a deep, soothing voice, "A long time ago, in a land far, far away, there were a people called the Jedi.”

“Jedi.” He echoes, brimming with admiration.

“That’s right. And they was made up of all sortsa beings. Humans and Twi’leks, Cereans and Bothans, Mon Calamari, Rodians, _Togruta_ , you name it! But you know what they all shared in common?”

The Child's ears flick up. _Oh, I know! I know this one!_ “Magic powers!” He squeaks proudly.

“Mhmm. They all had a magical power called The Force.” 

_“The Force.”_ His words are full of reverence.

“Yes, they was able to move things without touchin’ nothin’. Jus’ with their minds.”

The Child makes her thin blanket billow with his mind. She pushes it back down and chuckles quietly. “Yes, yes. Just like that. And you know who was the most powerful of all the Jedi?”

 _I remember! It's...it's..._ “Yoda!”

“That’s right. _Yoda_ . He was small, but _boy_ was he _ever_ strong! Just like you!” 

His smile grows. “Like me?” 

“Yessir. And I tell you what else he was. He was green like you.”

“ _Green_ like me!” The Child's heart grows warmer with each affirmation.

“With big eyes like you.”

“ _Eyes_ like me!”

“And he had them big pointy ears like you.”

“ _Ears_ like me!”

“And that cute button-nose of yours too!” She boops the little one on the nose and he giggles. “And when he’d use the Force,” she gently lifts his hand, “He’d raise his three-finger claw, just like this, and move all sorts'a things. He was so strong he could even move--”

“Apple baskets!” The Child blurts out.

Her eyes twinkle with mirth. “Bigger.” 

“Horsies?” He tries next.

The Matron shakes her head. “ _Bigger_.” 

His brow furrows. “Trains?” 

She leans in. “ _Even **bigger** _.”

His eyes brighten with barely contained glee. “ _Mountains_ ”, he gasps.

She smiles at him fondly, “ _Yes_ , even the mountains.” 

_______________

Soon enough, The Child is fast asleep, dreaming of a magical land where planes float upon a sea of stars, Jedi wave swords made from rainbows, and the Light Side wins every game, no matter the odds.

\-------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment if you can, even a little one helps to keep me going! 
> 
> Much love yall! <3


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